


When We Get Out of Here

by juchu



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Based loosely on Bluey Capsules, Canon Timeline, Character Development, Emotional Trauma, Funerals, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Slow Burn, The Bite of '83, Your mama, headcanons, not beta read we die like men, video games - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:02:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25868635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juchu/pseuds/juchu
Summary: Murderer.It was the only thing that had filled his head within the past couple of days.Michael Afton, fourteen years old, and a murderer.
Relationships: Michael Afton/Jeremy Fitzgerald
Comments: 5
Kudos: 64





	1. Murderer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [surgeries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/surgeries/gifts).



Michael’s brother died last week. 

The funeral lasted a total of ten minutes: the same amount of time it took to toss the mangled corpse of a ten year old boy into a ditch and cover it back up. 

There was no eulogy. No speech. No other family members besides his father wiping the sweat from his face, shovel in hand, and his sister who sat on a grassy patch in the shade of an old oak tree. 

The weather was entirely inappropriate for a funeral. Instead of the soft pitter patter of raindrops, or the need for a black umbrella to properly grieve, it was unbearably hot. The air was thick with moisture and everytime Michael so much as shifted, he could feel the strands of his tumbleweed dark hair sticking to the nape of his neck. 

“All right, I buried him.” The low voice of his father startled him from his reverie. His father, William, wasn’t a sturdy man. Despite living in the very outdoors nature of Utah, he looked pale and sickly. Most of the times he had a screwdriver in those trembling boney hands than the organic labor of a shovel, and if he wasn’t stowed away tinkering with another one of his robots at his restaurant, he would be watching the telly at home. 

The very act of seeing William outside, completely out of his element, was unsettling. 

William dropped the shovel and stumbled away from the now filled grave with a frown. That frown of his wasn’t due to grief or sadness. In fact, it felt more politely bothered than anything. As if he had accidentally dropped a couple of his blueprints instead of just buried his youngest son. “Sit here and grieve,” he muttered, wiping his hands on his dirty pant legs. “Play tag or something, just don’t bother me.” Then he trudged the ungainly path back to their house, a little wooden thing on the plains. 

Michael watched him go in silence. 

Only two children remained now by the small mountain of disturbed dirt. One who stood just several feet away from the grave, and another who was much farther under a tree. 

“Michael.” 

Michael didn’t reply.

“Michael,” The speaker, the mousy twelve year old girl that was his sister, tried again but to no avail. She quietly got up from where she sat beneath the oak, brushing her blonde hair away from her face with thin fingers. She attempted to pool it behind her ears, but it just swung back into place like a thick curtain. 

Michael’s gaze dragged against her face, which was sunken and indescribable. There was something beneath that waxy skin, an indiscernible anger that would have had him wincing back and snapping just several days ago, but now he accepted it with open arms. 

“You must feel happy, don’t you?” she said.

“Elizabeth--” It was the first time Michael had spoken since William had buried his brother. His voice croaked and crackled like a damaged audio box. 

“Now you’re feeling guilty? Or is it an act? Sorry to say, but there isn’t anyone around that’ll be impressed, Michael. Not after what you did to him.” She moved forward then. Michael took a step back.

“Why are you even here?” Elizabeth spat, her blonde hair flashed wildly in the burning sun. “You  _ killed _ him, and you want to play the cryer. Go back home and talk with Father, why don’t you? My brother wouldn’t want his murderer at his funeral.” 

Murderer. 

It was the only thing that had filled his head within the past couple of days. 

Michael Afton, fourteen years old, and a  _ murderer.  _

Maybe he could’ve just sobbed and blubbered out, “It was an accident!” But whatever he did that day was no accident. 

How could throwing his only brother into the jaws of a robotic monster an accident? 

Not to mention the cruelty that had bombarded his little brother for so long from Michael’s own tongue. 

Elizabeth was right, wasn’t she? 

He was a tyrant, a thief, a  _ murderer. _

Michael dared to raise his line of sight from the weeds beneath his shoes to Elizabeth’s face. 

She was flushed with anger and her chin quivered with distaste. Even her hair, which was once curly and brilliant, was now a greasy mop of spider web that stretched over her skull. 

Immediately, his eyes darted to their house. 

“Sorry.” He muttered out this half hearted excuse and picked his way down the unruly path back home. 

When Michael finally did reach the house and had one hand over the door knob, he allowed himself a quick glimpse back to the gravesite.

Elizabeth had returned to her spot under the tree. The mountain of dirt was undisturbed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael grapples with his actions and meets an interesting boy.

_ “Together we’ll make good times right here! What do you say, Fredbear?” _

_ “I say you’re right, Bonnie! Together we’ll make good times right here!” _

They were singing.

They never stopped singing.

Fredbear and Spring Bonny were the flag bearers for a new generation of pizza diners accompanied by the grand entertainment that was machines. They were also the pride and joy of William Afton. He would be tinkering into the night on a bit of their circuit boards or programming; if his children were to knock and request something quietly, he would respond with lashing out before tenderly resettling a wire in his two bundles of happiness. Ironic, wasn’t it? 

Maybe there was some sort of truth in the whole “robots to replace kids” conspiracy.

_ “Together we’ll make good times right here! What do you say, Fredbear?” _

_ “I say you’re right, Bonnie! Together we’ll make good times right here!” _

The tune, a crude mish mash of country and rock made a merry jamboree down the stage steps to the bouquets of children clamoring around a long white table awaiting to be picked. 

The children were clapping along to the music, giggling all the while as their mothers chided them for their greasy mouths. Those that weren’t sitting were climbing to the table and they hollered their little lungs out. 

Michael had his own booth. His personal grotto, complete with a piece of oozing school-cafeteria pizza on a cardboard plate and a napkin with the statement “Best Pizza in America!” printed ever so truthfully. 

His gaze wavered, uncertain, on the piece of food that may or may not be edible. His stomach rumbled. With a sigh, he shoved it away; it wouldn’t be worth the gamble. With nothing to distract himself besides the patronizing stage show, so he withdrew a little toy from his pocket. He fiddled with it for a moment, turning it over in his fingers. It was of a little lamb (maybe a goat, he didn’t know) and it was dented in several areas, most notably the face where parts of the plastic had been smashed into itself in these jagged teeth-like concaves. It wasn’t Michael’s. No, the true honor tossed and turned six feet beneath the ground back at their house. 

Michael attempted a trembling beam then, but it merely strained his lips so it creaked back into a frown. He recalled exactly when those teeth marks on the lamb were made. Just several weeks ago, he had fed it to a stray dog in “light-hearted” retaliation when his brother had chased him to the street for the toy. The dog had hacked it up and Michael laughed as his brother desperately cleaned off the saliva from it. 

What was wrong with him?

_ “Ha Ha Ha! That was good kids, you guys are real swell! Should we strum up another song, Bonnie?” _

_ “Oh, absolutely, Fredbear!” _

The beginning notes of the guitar startled him from his masochistic daydreams. He couldn’t stay here for another song. He couldn’t. Not with those animatronics. They came back into business so quickly-- how? That rust on Fredbear’s teeth… Or was that blood? Had all the blood even been cleaned off? Feeling sick, Michael staggered from the booth and rushed out of the parlor into the hallways; posters of the animatronics and children’s drawings mocked him as he stumbled by.

Some room. Any room. Any room without these posters, without the songs of those animatronics--

He burst into the Arcade, massaging the sudden stitch in his side.

To call it a real arcade was a bit of a gratuitous statement. There were arcade several machines and one claw machine that his father enjoyed scamming overconfident children with, but it was barely enough to warrant the title of arcade. It was an overzealous game closet at best.

But, at least there weren’t any more reminders.

_ Beep! Beep! Beep! _

Apparently, what there was instead was a singular kid banging audibly away on Space Invaders. The only thing Michael could see from where he stood was a baseball hat, worn at a precarious backwards angle, and a mop of loud yellow hair shrieking from beneath. When the kid leaned to stab a button, Michael could see an elbow jut out, pale and skinny as a chicken’s bone. 

_ Beep! Beep! Beep! _

“Yes! Screw you, stupid dumb stupid aliens! WOO HOO, next level!”

The kid, a boy apparently, let out a cheer and the resounding ding incoming the coming wave of aliens filled the room. 

With nowhere else to go, Michael resigned to his fate and approached curiously to the screen. Okay, standard aliens, standard tactics, standard--

“27,000 POINTS?” He couldn’t stop himself. 

The boy screamed, jolting the joystick into the pathway of an incoming laser.

The room echoed with the jingle of death.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I didn’t notice it and I thought--” Michael bit down on his tongue to prevent any more ridiculous excuses to dig holes out of his mouth. 

Twenty-seven thousand points. No easy feat. As a kid who had spent his own fair share of time and quarters attempting to reach five thousand, seeing someone just click clacking away at twenty-seven thousand was… impossible. 

And Michael had just ruined it for the boy.

“I-- I’m…” He grit his teeth. Apologies squeaked horribly on his tongue. “I’m sorry…” 

The boy, who has since been staring at the screen in all five stages of grief, tore his glazed eyes away. He reached his palms forwards imploringly, his fingers curling in on themselves like gnarled tree branches; when he exhaled, he did so shakily as he danced the fine line of misery, blind rage, and something despicable; however, after several moments in this position, he said two words:

“It’s okay.” The tree branches loosened, his bony frame fell apart and relaxed at the seams till he was less of a chicken skeleton and more of a disjointed scarecrow. His blonde hair fizzed around his head like straw and he blew them forlornly out of the way. 

“Are… Are you sure…?”

The kid smiled gloomily, teeth full of braces. “Yeah, it hurts real bad right now, but I’ll sleep it off. I did twenty-seven thousand before, I can do it again.” 

Michael let out a low whistle. Boy, could he admire that commitment to the ancient art of Space Invaders. “You got twenty-seven thousand before? I never made it past four thousand… How long did that take you?”

Michael’s appraising stare seemed to embarrass the kid as he scratched the back of his beck with one skinny arm. “Oh, that? Haha, it took about three… hours? I think? Kinda feels super good not needing to stand up anymore. God, my legs are sore!”

“Woah…”

“Yeah, haha… Hey, I’ve seen you around before! You’re… You are... I don’t know your name.”

“Oh. I’m-- I-- I’m Michael.” He wiped his sweaty hand on his shorts before reaching out reluctantly.

“Michael?” He shook it enthusiastically. “Awesome, nice to meetcha! I’m Jeremy! Jeremy Fitzgerald!” 

Jeremy’s smile was full of sunshine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!  
> got this update out in time 4 surgery's bdayyy HAPPY BDAY BRO!!!

**Author's Note:**

> i can explain --
> 
> my friend (surgeries) is having a really REALLY big fnaf phase and he wont stop talking FOR ONE SECOND about jeremichael and i am having a bsd phase and i wont stop talking FOR ONE SECOND about bsd  
> so i made a deal with him-- every 300 words i write for this fic will mean he watches one episode of bsd  
> i myself know the fnaf canon loosely and have read all of bluey capsules (which is a rlly good fnaf comic that was first made ironically but became serious due to public interest, you can find it on twitter)  
> anyway i have VAGUE IDEAS for where its headed and scenes but i dont think ill be super cautious about how i write or grammatical errors when it comes 
> 
> also i did not reread this so i did NO EDITING!!


End file.
